Tears of Sleeping Beauty

I've been revising this poem for 3 years now. Can't tell if it is getting better or worse. But the revision made sense to me for now - for the things I've been going through. So in that sense, it works. The first line is from a Science magazine article I read back in '07. I knew when I read that line, there must be a poem (probably many poems by many poets) spun from it.

Tears of Sleeping Beauty

And the LORD God caused a deep sleep to fall upon Adam,and he slept; and he took one of his ribs, and closed up the flesh in its place. - Gen 2:21

Moths drink the tears from eyes of sleeping birds.*
The same is true of certain butterflies.
Sometimes the facts sound just like pretty lies
that poets chose for loveliness of words.

It may be that the strangest facts in life
exist to help us weave a melody
as if God knew that every flower and tree
would comfort us, as does a man, his wife.

There’s beauty even in the realm of death.
Without such splendor we might not endure
this earthly plane. With suffering there is grace.
For every teardrop – may there widen the breadth
of love. And in the end there lies the cure
when grace and peace are etched on every face.


original © 2007
(Revised for the umpteenth time March 2010)

A I R <---> M A I L

For my mother (Oct 17,1932 - Feb 28, 2009)

The stamps you left inside your roll-top desk
are lady liberties worth thirty-nine
cents each. And in this chair I'm like a guest
in a closed Bed and Breakfast as I sign
this poem/letter that I'll never send
to you because the place is much too far
where you have flown. I cannot cause the wind
to carry my fond wishes to your star.

We last spoke on a Saturday by phone;
the final time was February-gray.
I told you I would call you back at home
that afternoon. I never got to say
the words I would have said if I had known
how quickly death would swallow flesh and bone.

Anne Bryant-Hamon (c) Oct. 1, 2009

February Blues

Shall I inscribe my eulogy to joy
on this, a lonesome, February day
over a man I'd thought of as a boy
until he sealed my lips. I held no sway,
no current strong enough to draw him out.
My language blurred the lines, then ran astray
into a grayish space that conjures doubt.
My tender words were meant to chase away
the heaviness that lay upon my shoulder.
I poured three cups of flirting with a smile.
And not expecting it – he grew much colder
as if he’d seen some ghost or phantom guile.
Perhaps the coming spring may turn around
that repertoire of joy I thought we’d found.

This House

This house is falling down. The roof has seen
its better days, even the trusses sag.
Don't let the moss that's growing in between
the shingles fool you with its charm. The swag
of roses on the door, tied with a bow,
are hung preserved and bundled near the bell.
And when the bell is rung we’ll have to go
to find something to buy – something to sell.

This house is tired of spinning round and round.
The window panes are covered with a haze
of dust and in the garden there's a sound
of tanks and bombs where little Johnny plays.
Through many trying years this house has stood
with hope and fear and nail prints in its wood.

Two Trains to the Zoo

- for Andrew David Hamon, my beloved son -


White moths are feeding on chrysanthemums
as squirrels are rolling acorns through the roots
of red oak trees. Gray elephants eat tons
of hay. "Snakeskins Should Never Cover Boots!",
a sign read as we left the reptile home,
(the place where eggs of gilamonsters lay).
Gazelles, so delicate, are free to roam;
orangutans seem happy as they play.
Cream stripes are lovely on brown bongos' backs.
"The Zebras Will Return To Us This Fall",
was posted near a far-out field of yaks.
"Hey, look! Great turtles just beyond that wall!"
"It took two trains to get us to the Zoo!",
exclaimed delighted, three-year-old, Andrew.




Anne Bryant-Hamon-1998
"Summer In Washington"

Ghost Riders

scribere ad nauseum necessa est

Two poet ghosts cling to these hallowed walls,
from Oedipus and Chiron by & by.
Some ghosts prefer to haunt old shopping malls.
But these ones, no! They light here on the fly
making themselves at home like gypsy thieves
disguised with party favors and spider webs
and pumpkins garlanded with autumn leaves,
their silent presence is hidden as music ebbs
its magic through the guests this Halloween,
slow-dancing in our dim-lit sitting room.
These ghosts stand watch and hear us in between
the laughter gliding on a witch’s broom.

The moral of this story is like a spell:
a secret riddle – so sorry, I cannot tell!


~._.~._.~scribbled here on 10.17.08~._.~._.~

Clockwork

It's said that love is stronger than the grave;
but if not, may we drink eternal sleep.
Oblivion might be the thing to save
us from a world too terrible and steep.

But if not, may we find that death can keep
the evil from our eyes – far from our sight;
a respite from the tears we’ve had to weep.
Let nothingness become a wingless flight.

Unending sleep may cauterize the fright
that haunts us as the years unwind and blend
themselves in search of joy and love and light
as we await the stillness of the wind.

Oblivion might just as thoroughly save
should death outweigh love’s power in the grave.

Lavender Blue Haze

Butterflies in a cage of emotion,
longing to be free, calling out with the notion
that inexistent is the key. - Michel Dargis -1996

Poem temporarily missing, pending publication rejection notice :-)

May Morning

Open wide as a market umbrella,
a white crape myrtle shades my front lawn
newly pebbled with patches of yellow
knots of dandelions. Just after dawn
I wake to the sound of glad singing
breaking forth in a song without words.
There’s no need for a language, the meaning
resonates from the joy of the birds.

To their open air concert I’m bringing
only bare feet and sleepy, green eyes,
and my coffee, of course, while I’m flinging
on a tee-shirt and blue jeans. I rise
up sky-lighted on many-a-morning
to the beauty of nature’s adorning.

To Vincent

To Vincent

I wish he could have seen the fields of Spain,
the massive blocks of sunflowers,
their pug-nosed faces upturned toward the sunset;
more than enough to paint past thirty-seven's gate.

Have you seen yellow ochre past a tender age,
its vintage kept by shaded, airtight glass
beyond the pale of early learning years,
still wet enough to draw the latter rains?

In Holland there are colors known to few
where pails of silver poured the milk and lime.
I saw them once and never left behind the taste
of umber's golden sunburn on my tongue.

I wonder if he listened to his peers,
which paintings that we'll never chance to view,
forever buried under yellowed graves,
and if, perhaps, the best were left undone?

- first published in Fall/99 2Riverview

****There are other versions I've written of this poem. I can't seem
to settle on just one. So I keep them all scattered about.

At Trevi Fountain

At Trevi Fountain

Remember how the chuckling water fell
on marbled stones and horses galloping,
and coins we tossed behind us in a spell
of wonderment like pearls thrown from a string?

Recall the ripples that we made that day
the drops that swirled together, circling out – - -
and out forever. People stopped to pray
at Trevi Fountain as children ran about.

I saw your eyes; they pooled with joy and fear,
and in them shone the sunny hills of Rome
reflected from a half-reluctant tear,
our journey nearly ended. Traveling home,
we saw three roads and took the highest one
that rises towards the all-consuming sun.

Cranberry Glades - (Monongahela Song)

Cranberry Glades
(Monongahela Song)

A weathered boardwalk circles through these Glades
for hikers trekking surly woodland scenes.
Bemusing chipmunks furrow rye-grass blades
and sparrows search for worms. The mountain greens
weave offerings of freshness through the air.
The West Virginia sun splays mellow beams
as rolling hills betray a harsher glare.
Cool river water fills our small canteens.

Monongahela is the forest's name
from natives who traversed this rugged land;
their spirit that moved here seems to revive
when cardinals light up cedars with their flame
and dulcimers and banjos carved by hand
rise up and “Almost Heaven” comes alive.

JOURNEY - (Last Hours of Ancient Sunlight)

I want to walk with you while there is light
and breath can still be drawn to feed our lips
with sacred words. As we approach our flight
to the beyond and join the ancient ships –
those vessels that endured the wrath and winds
blowing below the heavens. How we’ll sing
for joy of recognition, like lost friends
who know a celebration is the thing
we've come for. Even in the midst of war
let us remind each other of the day
we're navigating toward – it’s not too far,
our journey to the light. Let’s keep at bay

the passing darkness – and not let this night
obscure our upward visions of delight.

Calico Quipping

Calico Quipping

Our orange-cream calico is quite polite.
She comes to visit very patiently,
does not meow or paw me with a slight
concupiscence for petting. Silently,
she seems to know the power and the pull
of meekness – how its beauty draws me in.
Her peace commands attention. Now a full
but tempered purring brings my face a grin
as I contrast her personality
with Blacky's – how he nibbles at my feet,
not sparing my own flesh his tooth or claw.
I love them both, what's better, they love me.
And if they really had nine lives – how sweet;
our home would be a feline Taj Mahal.